18. Chapter 18
Maddox
I thought I had finally, finally , pushed him past his fear and made him choose being with me over the friendship.
It’s his birthday; I just wanted to give him a win.
I wanted to show him that leaning into this—into us—didn't have to be a goddamn war.
And for a second, as I was pressed against him, I really thought he was choosing to be happy.
Then I saw the screen light up with his name— Bry —and now I’m standing in the middle of the kitchen, completely humiliated and discarded. It’s a bitter, sick taste in my mouth, far worse than anything else could be.
He let me strip away his emotional armor. He let me be gentle, let me treat him like he was finally mine , only for him to use my own vulnerability as the anchor for his final, devastating retreat.
As soon as that fucking phone rang, Rylen snatched his hands away from my neck like my skin had suddenly turned toxic.
The intimacy was broken, like it was a love spell in some pathetic fairy tale and the walls that protect Ry’s treacherous heart slammed back up with an almost audible, terrifying finality.
He took the easy way out, like a fucking coward.
I’d stayed frozen for a beat, bewildered and exposed, as he’d grabbed the phone.
I still felt the heat of his skin, felt the painful, unfulfilled ache between my legs, and the shame of being left this vulnerable washed over me like an ice bath. Then came the knife twist.
“No, not doing anything important, what’s up?”
He said it like I wasn’t just breathing against his skin; his voice was so bland and carefree—the voice he uses when ordering coffee or talking to people at work. It was the voice of the best friend who hadn't just almost ruined our lives in the best way possible.
Oh God. What if I’d let him go further? Would he still have done this?
Would I still mean nothing to him? He didn’t even have the decency to sound guilty.
He simply turned his back on me and just…
walked away. I can’t actually believe he’s doing this.
He’s going on a fucking date, on his birthday —Rylen's birthday is his favourite day of the year, partly because it's the only one where the responsibility of the club doesn’t exist and the rest of the world can go to hell.
We have a routine—every year for as long as I can remember, this day is ours .
We shut out the world, order way too much greasy takeout, and we spend the night getting hammered on the couch while some shitty horror movie plays in the background, then we play video games until our eyes bleed and talk about absolutely nothing until we both pass out.
It’s our thing.
But apparently this year he’d rather be sitting across from some stranger, making small talk and pretending to be someone he’s not, while I’m left standing in a kitchen, smelling like the breakfast I made for him, the one that he didn't even eat. The silence he’s left behind is deafening, amplified by the violent pounding in my ears.
He’s throwing away years of us—of our traditions—just to run away from what happened in this room a few minutes ago.
And what, does he seriously think he's going to fall in-love with someone named Bry ?
Ry and Bry, sittin' in a tree— doesn't he even care how utterly fucking ridiculous their names sound together?
The kitchen feels enormous, cold, and utterly ruined now; I’m never going to be able to look at this countertop again without thinking about what almost happened... what could've happened if Rylen wasn’t such a goddamn coward.
Rylen—the man who claimed to hate drama, but was somehow always caught in it, the man who was terrified of commitment but couldn’t resist his attraction to me—had turned his back on the most raw, honest moment of his life and chose the easy, casual ringing of his phone.
Well he’s not fucking getting away with it. Not this time.
I wipe my trembling, sweaty palms on the lemon print button-up shirt hanging loosely off my frame as I slowly straighten, pushing myself away from the counter.
I can hear his muted voice coming from the living room, talking to Bry, pretending everything is fine, pretending I’m nothing more than his roommate.
Well, fuck, that .
I run a hand through my already messy hair, letting out a heavy, silent breath of fury. I need to scrub the memory of him out of my head before I scream .
My feet carry me toward the archway separating the kitchen from the living room.
I move slowly and pause a few meters away from Rylen, who’s standing by the bookshelf half-facing away from me.
His left hand rubs against the back of his neck in that gesture of faux-casualness he always uses whenever he’s uncomfortable.
Good. I hope he hates every single second of this bullshit he's forcing us to both endure.
“Oh, really? What time is it now? hang on—" he mumbles lifting the phone away from his face, presumably to check the time. "Four o'clock. Right so, in an hour then?” he queries, voice lifting as a nervous little laugh catching in his throat. “Yeah, that, uh, sounds great.”
Rylen shifts his weight, eyes flicking toward me for a microsecond.
He sees me standing in the doorway, and his walls shoot up even higher.
My presence is a stone dropped into the calm water of his conversation and he can’t handle it.
He turns his back fully, using his body to shield his face from me, his voice dropping an octave.
“Yeah, perfect. Send me the address and I’ll text you when I’m about to leave.”
I can’t stand here and listen to him lie anymore. I can’t watch him choose Bry over the mess of emotions we just created together. My jaw locks so tightly my teeth ache and my stomach muscles constrict like I’ve just been gut punched.
I shove off the doorframe and stalk past him, not even bothering to give him a wide berth.
I can feel the heat radiating off him, the way his body tenses, anticipating me to shoulder-check him or throw some heated words.
Except I don’t give him the satisfaction of having either.
I aim straight for the central bathroom, the one Rylen will need to take a shower in before he leaves.
The lock clicks shut, loud and sharp behind me.
I don’t look at my face in the mirror, I don’t want to see the exposed anger or the lingering shame.
I just strip naked and step into the shower, turning the water dial up as far as it can go—I need the scalding heat to burn the memory of his touch out of my skin.
The scent of him is everywhere and I need it gone.
I scrub my face and neck with the citrus-and-cedar mix that I bought because Rylen loves the scent of it, the one I don’t even like and only tolerate because of him. Everything I do is for him. I want the smell of our life to cling to my skin until Rylen chokes on it.
My body is going through the motions on autopilot, still stunned by the hot and cold whirlwind of the past few weeks.
I mean, what the fuck? He’s just going to clean himself up and try to rinse away any evidence that I exist, that he had wanted me, that he almost fucked me?
How can the man that I love be so fucking callous?
It's almost as if they're two seperate people, and the one out there isn't the version of Rylen that's been with me all these years.
I scoff aloud, dipping my head under the spray. The water hammers in my ears like a weighted security blanket, dispersing the negative thoughts seething inside me like poison.
I hate him. I hate that he’s doing this to me. That he’s treating me like I’m so fucking disposable.
A slow, vicious thought begins to form as I look at the bottles on the shower shelf—his expensive charcoal face wash, his precision shave gel.
If he wants to run away and pretend everything is fine, then cool, whatever, he can do that. But he’s going to be late and look like a mess. He will carry my resentment with him, I’ll make sure of that.
I grab the face wash and squeeze out the entire bottle, watching the viscous liquid foam run down the drain. I send his shampoo and conditioner bottles skittering across the slick floor with a furious kick before stomping on them so hard the lids burst off.
I turn the water up to maximum blast and start to sing—a tuneless, low hum that vibrates through the pipes, and let the minutes stretch; twenty minutes runs into thirty—thirty minutes becomes forty.
The steam has gotten so thick it’s choking me, coating the glass, condensing on the walls, and dripping onto the towels that I deliberately let pile up on the floor.
He’s definitely running late now. Every minute I waste in here is a small act of sabotage, a way to tamper with his perfect, neat escape.
When the bathroom door finally rattles from the first sharp blow of his fist, a cruel, dark satisfaction curls in my chest. He sounds frantic, and frustrated, which means he’s still thinking about me. Perfect.
I turn the water off, reaching for one of his towels, and wait a full, punishing extra minute before I unlock the door, barely able to contain my glee as I stare down at the murderous look on his face.
Two can play at this game, baby. Happy fucking birthday.